


Better

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [10]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: gender and body dysphoria allusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:30:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2413346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For both their sakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better

Thursday, December 23, 1999 (cont.)

_“This is bullshit.”_

They’re in a grocery store. A goddamn grocery store at nearly six in the morning, no less, all because Wrench had insisted they stock up on food and provisions for the cabin before even getting there. Though very unlikely that Chet left the cottage supplied in any capacity, Numbers decides that if he finds anything beyond a box of stale crackers and a can of beans he is going to have a few very choice words with Wrench. He’s been running on fumes for the past hour; his partner, at least, had slept for most of their ride across South Dakota, and is currently what Numbers considers annoyingly wide awake.

 _“We’ll be done in twenty minutes,”_ Wrench counters forbearingly, setting a carton of eggs and two loaves of bread in the area designed for a small child to sit. Based on Numbers’ string of complaints since they set foot into the store, it’s not a stretch for Wrench to imagine a tiny, bearded Numbers in the seat. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, yet no matter how tempting it might be to paint this picture to his partner, he decides it’s best to keep it to himself. One black eye’s bad enough, better not chance a second.

 _“Could have done this later today. In the afternoon,”_ Numbers’ hands whine, _“when it’s warmer. After I’ve slept.”_

Wrench quirks an eyebrow so high it disappears into his bangs, bringing the cart to a halt in front of the dairy section. _“Are you finished?”_

Flipping Wrench off lost what little effect it had about six hours into their first day together, but that doesn’t stop Numbers from raising his middle finger as he grabs a gallon jug with his other hand. _“I feel useless when I’m this tired,”_ Numbers finally says with a shrug after he places the milk in the cart. _“Both of us need to be on our A game. This is a big job.”_

 _“You don’t have to tell me that,”_ Wrench replies with one hand, turning into the next aisle. _“Four guys to take care of. Could be complicated.”_ He snatches a few boxes of generic Raisin Bran from the shelf, ignoring the childish face Numbers makes in disgust at his cereal choice and tossing them into the basket with the rest of their food. _“How do you know Chet?”_

Numbers stares at him for a moment before realizing that Wrench had taken it upon himself to create a sign specifically for the old man: the gesture for smoking, then converting the motion into a “C”. Numbers likes it; it’s fitting enough. _“Met him through one of my connections about seven years ago. He got me started with Fargo.”_ In his weariness, his signing is sloppy, almost careless. He’s unsure whether or not his hands hit every word. Frankly, he doesn’t really care. But Wrench nods in some level of understanding, and he figures he’s doing a good enough job through his exhausted haze.

A few aisles and more than a few items later (some less necessary than others, in Wrench’s opinion), Numbers points towards a sign advertising a sale on potato chips.

There are already several packages of junk food in the cart, but instead of commenting on how Numbers probably doesn’t need any more high in fat high in sodium empty calorie foods, Wrench nods towards a first aid display on an endcap. _“We need something for your lip.”_

 _“It’s fine,”_ Numbers lies. There are times when he’s grateful he doesn’t need to speak to communicate with Wrench and this is certainly one of them; talking to Chet at the diner was a mildly painful nuisance at times and absolute agony at others.

Wrench scoffs. _“Yeah, as fine as this,”_ he says, pointing to his puffy eye as if to highlight to Numbers the sick blotches of yellow that are beginning to intermingle with the varying shades of purple. At least it’s not swollen shut. A small blessing, Wrench supposes.

Numbers throws two bags of chips into the cart with a huff. _“I said I was sorry!”_

_“It’s not about being sorry!”_

_“Then what?”_

_“It’s about you taking care of yourself! The cut’s deep. You probably need stitches. No—you **definitely** need stitches.” _ He pauses, holding up his hands to prevent Numbers from cutting him off, but still allowing him a moment to make one of his patented disagreeable faces before continuing. _“I know you won’t go to a doctor. Okay? I know that. So you have to patch it up as good as you can so it doesn’t come to that. It could get infected.”_

_“I can take care of myself.”_

_“I know that.”_

_“You’re not the first guy to make a mess of my face.”_

Something changes in Wrench’s expression, softening it from its previous sternness. _“Yes. But I’m the first guy who wants to fix what he's done to it.”_

Numbers’ face goes still and his body with it. More out of habit than out of anger he’s tempted to argue, but after giving that inclination half a moment’s thought he somehow manages to gather enough self-awareness to realize how fucked up of an instinct that is. The guy’s being nice, nothing more, nothing less, and he doesn’t have it in him to shoot him down when he’s only concerned, trying to help. Besides, Wrench’s face harbors that guilty look again, the same one from the motel room yesterday, and it’s annoying in a way that makes Numbers want to make sure he doesn’t have to look at it any longer.

Finally moving, he grabs packages of bandages and tubes of antibiotics and aloe vera, signing, _“Fine, fine, fine,”_ before waving Wrench off entirely, his bloodshot eyes rolling dramatically. Once the items are hastily chucked in with the rest, he asks, _“Happy?”_

 _“Immensely,”_ Wrench answers, his expression not reflecting his sentiment.

They make considerably quicker work out of the rest of their shopping, barely communicating past pointing at various items and either nodding or shaking their heads.

Numbers prefers it this way, though the lack of conversation allows his tired mind to wander unpleasantly, weaving a path through the short list of people in his life who have cared for him. His sister, back in his home town and so far away it’s like she’s a figment of his imagination. People he never kept in touch with and barely gave any thought to from his jobs at the Reading syndicate. Chet, who he had to admit he was grateful to see again. Diane.

And now Wrench. Earnest in his ideals about what a partnership should be from the get-go. More patient with Numbers than anyone’s been in a long time, more forgiving and understanding than he would have ever expected, even if what he expected was nothing of the sort. But even Wrench had a breaking point, and what happened on the lake notwithstanding, it had been a few days in the making. All because Numbers had been, from the start, condescending and moody and rude and a slew of other unpleasant adjectives, for no good reason other than that’s just who he was, who he _is_. With a lurch of his stomach he thinks Wrench deserves better, and with it realizes he actually _wants_ to be better, for both their sakes.

There’s no way he can tell what thoughts have been forming in Numbers’ mind, but the removed, dismal expression still plastered on his partner’s face suggests they weren’t pleasant.

After they pay, Wrench offers to drive. A small gesture, but still a nice one all the same. Numbers didn’t anticipate it and feels unworthy of another random act of Wrench’s kindness. The various negative cogs that started moving in his brain earlier continue to spin until something insidious clicks into place and suddenly he feels small, and that his hands are especially diminutive. It’s not true and he knows it, but as he looks at Wrench’s large, sturdy hands the thought nags at him. After several moments rife with self-loathing, he pulls his gloves on and slips his hands into his jacket pockets as he and Wrench stagger across the icy parking lot.

Once settled in the car, Wrench gently places a hand on Numbers’ shoulder, stirring the man from his reverie. _“Wanna hear a joke?”_ A smirk pulls at his lips.

_“What?”_

Wrench shrugs. _“You look like you could use a laugh. That’s all.”_

Numbers shrugs, too. _“I guess.”_

 _“Ok. Make the sign for ‘milk’ in front of your face.”_ When Numbers doesn’t, looking confused, Wrench repeats the request over and over until his partner begrudgingly complies. _“Keep making the sign, but move it back and forth. In front of your eyes.”_

Numbers goes along with it, trying not to think much of his hand as it passes through his line of sight. _“Milk, milk, milk, milk.”_

 _“Do you know what sign that is?”_ His good eye twinkles impishly in the lamppost lights as he watches Numbers repeat the gesture again and again.

Gritting his teeth and beginning to feel foolish, he shakes his head as his gloved fist twitches over and over in midair, back and forth. _“Milk, milk, milk.”_ Twenty, thirty times, now. _“Milk, milk, milk.”_

Wrench can hardly contain his hiss of a chuckle as he signs the punch line. _“Pasteurized milk.”_

Slapping his knee at Numbers’ blank, disbelieving stare, Wrench doubles over and starts the car, his soft chortle escalating to a thick, throaty laugh that bellows over the whirring engine.

Numbers drops his hand to his lap but raises it right back up and smacks Wrench in the bicep with it.

 _“That was terrible,”_ he says, but his growing smile betrays him.

**Author's Note:**

> wrench's dad joke is from [lifeprint](http://www.lifeprint.com/asl101/pages-layout/jokes3.htm).
> 
> sorry my updates haven't been as frequent! hoping to post more regularly in the future.


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